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Wild Huntress

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<h3>Chapter Seventy One.</h3> <h4>A queer Conversation.</h4> Is other days, and under other circumstances, the touch of that round arm, softly encircling my waist, might have caused the current of my veins to flow fast and fevered. Not so then. My blood was thin and chill. My soul recoiled from amatory emotions, or indulged in them only as a remembrance. Even in that hour of trial and temptation, my heart was true to thee, Lilian! Had it been thy arm thus wound around my waist—had those eyes that glanced over my shoulder been blue, and the tresses that swept it gold—I might for the moment have forgotten the peril of my companions, and indulged only in the ecstasy of a selfish love. But not with her—that strange being with whom chance had brought me into such close companionship. For her I had no love-yearnings. Even under the entwining of that beautiful arm, my sense was as cold, as if I had been in the embrace of a statue. My thoughts were not there. My captive comrades were uppermost in my mind. Her promise had given me hope that they might yet be rescued. How? and by whom? Whither were we going? and whose was the powerful hand from which help was to come? I would have asked; but our rapid movement precluded all chance of conversation. I could only form conjectures. These pointed to white men—to some rendezvous of trappers that might be near. I knew there were such. How else in such a place could her presence be accounted for? Even that would scarce explain an apparition so peculiar as that of this huntress-maiden! Other circumstances contradicted the idea that white men were to be my allies. There could be no band of trappers strong enough to attack the dark host of Red-Hand—at least with the chance of destroying it? She knew the strength of the Arapahoes. I had told her their number, as I had myself estimated it—nearly two hundred warriors. It was rare that a party of white hunters mustered above a dozen men. Moreover, she had mentioned a name—twice mentioned it—“Wa-ka-ra.” No white was likely to bear such an appellation. The word was undoubtedly Indian—especially as the huntress had pronounced it. I waited for an opportunity to interrogate her. It offered at length—where the path ran circuitously among loose rocks, and it was impossible to proceed at a rapid pace I was about initiating a dialogue, when I was forestalled in my intention. “You are an officer in the army!” said my companion, half interrogatively. “How should you have known that?” answered I in some surprise—perceiving that her speech was rather an assertion than a question. “Oh! easily enough; your uniform tells me.” “My uniform?” “Yes. Have you not still a portion of it left?” inquired she, with a striking simplicity. “I see a mark here where lace stripes have been. That denotes an officer—does it not? The Arapahoes have stripped them off, I suppose?” “There was lace—true—you have guessed correctly. I have been in the army.” “And what was bringing you out here? On your way to the gold countries, I dare say?” “No, indeed, not that.” “What, then, may I ask?” “Only a foolish freak. It was a mere tour without much purpose. I intended soon to return to the States.” “Ah! you intend returning? But you say you were following the caravan—you and your three fellow-travellers! Why were you not with it? Would it not have been safer?” I hesitated to make reply. My interrogator continued: “It is not usual for so small a party to pass over the prairies alone. There is always danger from the Indians. Sometimes from whites too! Ah me! there are white savages—worse savages than red—far worse—far worse!” These strange speeches, with the sigh that accompanied them, caused me to turn my head, and steal a glance at the countenance of my companion. It was tinged with melancholy, or rather deeply impressed with it. She, too, suffering from the past? In this glance I again remarked what had already attracted my notice—a resemblance to Lilian Holt! It was of the slightest, and so vague, that I could not tell in what it lay. Certainly not in the features—which were signally unlike those of Lilian; and equally dissimilar was the complexion. Were I to place the resemblance, I should say that I saw it in the cast of the eye, and heard it in the voice. The similitude of tone was striking. Like Lilian’s, it was a voice of that rich clarion sound with which beautiful women are gifted—those having the full round throat so proudly possessed by the damsels of Andalusia. Of course, reflected I, the likeness must be accidental. There was no possibility of its being otherwise; and I had not a thought that it was so. I was simply reminded of looks and tones that needed not that to recall them. The souvenirs so excited hindered me from making an immediate reply. “Your observations are somewhat singular?” I remarked at length. “Surely you have not verified them by your own experience?” “I have. Yes—and too sadly, ever to think them otherwise than just. I have had little reason to love those of my own colour—that is, if I am to consider myself a white.” “But you are so, are you not?” “Not altogether. I have Indian blood in my veins.” “Not much, I should fancy?” “Enough to give me Indian inclinings—and, I fear, also a dislike to those of my own complexion.” “Indeed?” “Perhaps less from instinct than experience. Ah! stranger! I have reason. Is it not enough that all have proved false—father, lover, husband?” “Husband! You are married, then?” “No.” “You have been?” “No.” “Why did you say husband!” “A husband only in name. I have been married, but never a wife; wedded, but never—” The speaker paused. I could feel her arm quivering around my waist. She was under the influence of some terrible emotion! “Yours must be a strange story?” I remarked, with a view of inducing her to reveal it. “You have greatly excited my curiosity; but I know that I have no claim to your confidence.” “You may yet win it.” “Tell me how.” “You say you intend returning to the States. I may have a commission for you; and you shall then hear my story. It is not much. Only a simple maiden, whose lover has been faithless—her father untrue to his paternal trust—her husband a cheat, a perjured villain.” “Your relationships have been singularly unfortunate; but your words only mystify me the more. I should give much to know who you are, and what strange chance has led you hither?” “Not now—time presses. Your comrades, if still alive, are in peril. That is your affair; but mine is that the Red-Hand may not escape. If he do, there’s one will grieve at it—one to whom I owe life and protection.” “Of whom do you speak?” “Of the mortal enemy of Red-Hand and his Arapahoes—of Wa-ka-ra.” “Wa-ka-ra?” “Head chief of the Utahs—you shall see him presently. Put your horse to his speed! We are close to the camp. Yonder are the smokes rising above the cliff! On stranger! on!” As directed, I once more urged my Arab into a gallop. It was not for long. After the horse had made about a hundred stretches, the cañon suddenly opened into a small but beautiful vallon—treeless and turfed with grass. The white cones, appearing in serried rows near its upper end, were easily identified as an encampment of Indians. “Behold!” exclaimed my companion, “the tents of the Utahs!” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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